Dungeons and Dragons v Detecting and Deduction
by Sherlock Holmes Skittle
Summary: Rhee again. This is the third part of my trilogy, in which Mr. Holmes disappears and I suffer a mental breakdown. And then Harry Potter gets involved, Snape saves the day and ruins it at the same time, and Holmes finds out that I can be even more annoying
1. Why I Compulsively Read Sherlock Holmes

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Compulsively Read **_**Sherlock Holmes**_

_**Grand and General Disclaimer:**__ Hi, it's Rhiannon Phan again. Yeah, so, I don't own anything. I'm what many people call a starving student. If I had enough money to own any one of the characters featured here, I wouldn't be starving. Well, maybe I would be, because if I did own the rights to them, I would give up all personal contact with the human world to stare madly at a computer screen and type up their life stories. Of course, they'd all hate that, but since I am the afore mentioned starving student, none of us have anything to worry about. Well, maybe they do if I keep writing fanfiction. And maybe I should worry that they'll retaliate and steal all my pencils. Hm. I'm gonna go hide them real quick._

_I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Slavery was abolished several years ago, or so he tells me. He doesn't really appreciate me writing this, but whatever. The rights to his character belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Actually, last I heard Dame Jean Conan Doyle owned him. I wonder if she's passed on the torch yet. Probably. That was the 40's. If you want to find out, go to Goggle and report back with what you find. Imagine Mr. Holmes in the Public Domain. Wouldn't he be happy. Unless he already _is_ in the Public Domain. That would explain why he's always grumpy. Either that or I bug him too much. Hm. Definitely the Public Domain thing._

_I don't own Harry Potter either, thank the Taco gods. Mmmm. . . Tacos. What does Harry have to do with anything? I wish it was nothing. I don't even like him. But I have to say it. I honestly wish I could have skipped all this, but it happened and Mr. Holmes expects me to write it down. He says that it's recording evidence. Mr. Doyle says I'm playing Dr. Watson in these adventures. I say Mr. Holmes is trying to antagonize me because he knows I'd write it down anyway. But whatever. I don't own them, so that's good. Except me. I own me. I think. Hm. . . _Anyway –

Welcome to the third part of my Trilogy, also known as _The Adventures of Rhee Phan_.

After my good friend Baylei Bryan disappeared and reappeared, Mom kept a pretty close eye on me. It was pretty unnerving, so when I got into my senior year, I spilled everything so I could have some space. Next thing I knew, my books had disappeared. No worries, though, because I still had the books and computers at school to keep in touch with Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Holmes was doing very well without me and set up that Department of Literary Abuses. He is quite happy with it. I think at the time he had a couple of staff members from nearby stories who monitored fanfiction. He doesn't let me in on the details.

I had graduated from Franklin High School and was working two jobs to pay for college – data entry for East Heights Enterprises and book-shelving for the city library – when my life almost fell apart. Granted it was ripping at the seams with all that work to begin with.

There was a point in July of this year, 2007, when I noticed something small and insignificant. I couldn't undo the clasp of the silver necklace Mr. Holmes gave me a year ago. I didn't mind the necklace; it was beautiful, but I couldn't take it off. After a week or so of living with it, I took a good look at the clasp and found the strangest thing. The clasp didn't exist: the ends had fused and I was left with the result. Only one thing popped into my head.

_Sherlock Holmes._

Immediately I pried up my floorboards to find my copy of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ that I had stolen back from my mother months before. I flipped the book open to my bookmark and was about to write when I looked at the words on the page. Utter nonsense met my eyes. The story was gone and nothing but incoherent babble remained. When I tried to read deeper, the text vanished and left me a blank page.

I tore through the book, desperately hoping that my contacts were messing with my eyes, but there was no Dr. John Watson, no Irene Adler, no Prof. James Moriarty, no Cardboard boxes, no tortured Hounds, no speckled snakes, no poison pills, no bloody _RACHE_, no massive inheritances for Dr. Watson's future wife to gain, no nothing. Wait, yeah, there was nothing. Pure nothing. Worse than Mr. Doyle's world of nothing. I hate nothing.

I stood up and started walking. I had absolutely no idea what had happened or where I was going, but eventually I ended up at a friend's house. I knocked and they let me in, but they gave me the weirdest looks. I gave them even weirder ones because I couldn't remember who they were. I needed just one thing. "Sherlock Holmes." It's the only thing I ever said. Sure, they were talking up a storm, something about storms and whatnot. I was soaked, and I had no idea why. My feet were raw and I couldn't find my shoes if I'd taken them off.

My friend, who I eventually remembered was Baylei, found a Sherlock Holmes book somewhere in her house. It was a copy that I'd lent to her a while ago so she could know what I was talking about. The book clearly was unused and unread, but I snapped it open anyway. Blank pages.

I was off again despite the Bryans' protests. I let my instinct do the walking for me, although it wasn't doing a very good job. It got me to the library, though. My boss gave me a "do-I-even-know-this-girl-anymore?" look and started walking over to me to throw me out. I went straight to the D's and pulled _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ off the shelf with my clammy and stiff fingers. Blank pages.

"Rhee," my boss said as she turned me around. "What's wrong with you? It's pouring out there. Where are your shoes?"

I shoved the book into her hands. "He's gone. Sherlock Holmes. Where is he?"

"Rhee, it's just a bad book that needs to – Rhee, stop crying. Is that even you in there? Rhee!"

But I had enough. Sherlock Holmes wasn't in the library. I walked out until I found a local internet café. I dumped out enough money to get onto a computer and maybe buy a bagel. Either way, I got onto the internet and found a search engine. I typed in 'Sherlock Holmes,' and waited for the page to load.

_Error. Search turned up 0 results. Did you mean --_

I used up all my willpower keeping myself from smashing the screen. Sherlock Holmes wasn't on the internet. I wanted to try again, spell his name differently, find Conan Doyle instead, but my feet picked me up and took me outside.

Just down the road – actually, quite a ways down the road – is a prominent, prestigious theater due to play _Sherlock Holmes and the West End Horror_. Several of the actors and production team are good friends of mine as I am their local Holmesian expert. Inside, the entire staff was in chaos.

I stopped the director, John Hayes. "Not now, Rhee. Someone's stolen the scripts and no one can find any replacements."

"The scripts are gone?"

"And they left us these blank ones."

I took a good look at all the paper. There were marks from highlighting and extra notes, but nothing in print. "These _are_ your scripts, John."

"Stop being funny Rhee. What kind of joke is this?"

"It's not a joke. It's dangerous. Where's Austin?"

Austin being Austin Holmes, my really, really good friend, almost boyfriend (if I play my cards right), and the one who plays Sherlock Holmes. (Yeah, I got the irony or coincidence, or whatever you want to call it.)

"I don't know," John sighed. "I haven't seen sight or sound of him this morning."

"Find him. Now."

"Now who's the director, Rhee?"

"_Now!_"

I paced the stage while everybody searched for Austin. They checked his room, his home, his car, his favorite restaurants, any place that he might be. They called his cell phone, but it was busy. His parents couldn't find him and his friends hadn't seen him since the day before. Within twenty minutes, a missing persons report was filed.

Tragedies like this are good for actors' careers.

And once _I_ found him, I was going to strangle him.

I called his cell phone myself, just to make sure. Amazingly, he answered.

"Rhee?" He sounded surprised. "Is that you, Rhee?"

"Austin? Where are you? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. This Sherlock guy of yours is getting on my nerves, though."

"Mr. Holmes? He's there? Where are you!?"

"I don't know. You have to get us out, though."

The call cut off right there. I didn't hang up for a moment, just hoping that he was still there. He was gone though.

Someone was shouting that some other theater in New York was missing its Sherlock Holmes. Another theater in Wyoming was going through the same thing. Eventually someone called it The Great Sherlock Holmes Heist.

Something in the back of my mind snapped. I remembered all that trouble a year ago when Baylei got stuck in a book, and I knew exactly who to blame. Not really though. I hadn't actually met him or heard his name or anything. But I knew cliches.

I felt a hand on my face. A paramedic stood above me, noting my condition. "She's definitely in shock. She needs to get to a hospital."

"Why are you here?" I snapped. "No one's hurt. I'm fine. Go find Sherlock Holmes."

"Rhee," John explained, "you just fell off the stage. You weren't moving. Don't you remember?"

And from where I fell, it was quite a drop, I won't lie to you. But why didn't I remember it? I touched my head and felt some blood. "Ow. When did I do that?"

"You were screaming, Rhee. Right before you fell, you were screaming death threats. No one wanted to stop you, but then you fell."

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Something's wrong with me John."

And then the orderlies – er, paramedics loaded me onto a stretcher and took me away.


	2. Why I Am Insane

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Am Insane**

I was fine. Honest. Just a couple bumps and bruises, some minor amnesia, and I was sent home. To be even more honest, I'd say I suffered a mental breakdown. And it's all because of Mr. Holmes. Not really, I just like blaming him because I don't know who to blame.

My parents forced me to take a week off work, so I was stuck with sleeping in. Unfortunately, I'm a morning person, which I'd discovered after two attempts at a graveyard shift, so I pretty much laid in bed awake until seven o'clock. I was under strict orders not to wake up until eight. So, yeah, I was bored. And when I'm bored, I do stupid stuff. Like read notebooks that I'd filled years ago.

Specifically one year and two months ago when I went to Victorian London on a spur-of-the-moment impulse.

Jake's note was still in there. It's kind of one of those 'don't be stupid' notes. To be really, really honest, I've read it five billion times and never listened to it once. This was five billion and one.

The letter goes something like:

_Rhee– You keep that necklace close. Holmes will make sure it keeps you safe. Hide this book. Keep it alive if you want to see Holmes again. And beware of cliches. –Jake_

_P.S. Don't be stupid._

But then I noticed the P.P.S. The one that wasn't there before.

_P.P.S. Poor Holmes. Stuck in a popular world of magic. Sucker._

I nearly swore when I read that line. I think it was the twentieth of July 2007, and I knew that Mr. Holmes could only be in one certain book. I marched over to the pile of books in the corner of my room that my mother had given me to read. (_Hop on Pop_ and whatnot.) (She's nervous about my choosing books.) (The last time she ever read anything was when I was a toddler.) I dug through the pile to find the one book I needed: _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_.

Nothing out of the ordinary popped out at me as I skimmed through, and I didn't expect any changes to be subtle because, well, we're talking about Sherlock Holmes here. Those poor pages. I tore through them so fast and so hard just to find Mr. Holmes. I feel sorry for the trees. Anyway, nothing turned up until I got to the end. And I mean, the end. I was at the end of the end, past "The End." I was practically in the binding. In fact, I was _literally_ in the binding. Heck of a place to hide a change, but there it was; a crossover.

_Sherlock Holmes lives at Hogwarts_, the sentence said.

It was a simple event – an unfinished event but a disastrous one nonetheless. I hate crossovers, and not just because of my horrible collision with The Lord of the Rings. I just feel that stories written separately should remain separate. I mean, it's crazy that people from Lord of the Rings knew Mr. Holmes just by chance. How _does_ that happen?

"Mr. Holmes," I muttered, "how do you manage to get yourself into these messes? Well, we always happen to get into trouble one way or another."

'_Don't even think about it,'_ appeared on the back cover.

"I never do, Mr. Holmes."

'_Rhiannon Phan, do not – !'_ but I slammed the book shut before he could finish. Honestly, it's creepy watching a book yell at you. When I set the book down to grab my notebook, I noticed that my hands were covered in something red and sticky and warm – sickeningly warm. The book was spilling blood onto my floor, like the steady drip of a faucet that has a dangerous leak. _Glop-Glop-Glop_ all over my floor.

I was getting light-headed just from the sight of the blood, but I opened _Harry Potter_ to see where the blood issued from, if it had any cuts or tears or bruises or even stab wounds. The blood came from the back of the book, from the binding. I tried wiping it away to see if Mr. Holmes had said anything more, but all the words had run.

I don't know what I did to the book to try to make it stop, but it didn't work. Finally, after tossing my kibbles and bits, I realized that I couldn't succeed. "Fine," I said, "be a freak of nature. But I am _so_ getting in there whether you like it or not."

"Nuh uh," the book said. "You can't tell me what to do." (On an off note, I've never liked _Harry Potter_ because I find it somewhat immature.)

"Oh yeah? I'm Rhiannon Phan. I can do whatever I want."

I held the book in one hand and my notebook in the other and slammed them together. A pulse of energy from the books threw me against the wall. Lucky for me, I missed all the wall hangings and the subsequent flying projectiles. That energy was _nasty_. The books began to glow as they fused and merged. Well, maybe 'shine' is a better word in place of glow. Or 'light up my room.' Or even 'burn with the brightness and glory of the sun.'

When the books had destroyed everything in my room, they stopped emitting so much light and revealed what they had formed. A gigantic mirror stood in the center of my room, proud and mighty. I looked into it, and it looked into me – no sorry. That's _Doctor Who_. I saw reflected, stone walls that didn't belong to my room, and the person who stood in the mirror certainly wasn't me.

Mr. Holmes looked down at me and said with unmistakable surprise, "Ms. Phan?"

"Hi!" I waved to him. Then I stretched out my hand through the glass and grabbed hold of Mr. Holmes' offered hand. I held still for a moment and let the energy pulse through my arm; it felt really weird, yet cool. I pushed my other hand through and stepped forward. The surge blasted through me like lightning and left me on the other side with the wind knocked out of me. And when that sort of stuff happens, well, you know, I do stupid things.

Like tripping into Mr. Holmes' arms like an idiot. Actually, more like a Mary-Sue.

"Are you alright? Can you stand?" He was very nice and polite as he was helping me stand.

"I think so – no." I fell down yet again and he caught me. Yet again. "I can't feel my legs. Is this normal?"

"It's probably from when you crossed over," he explained as he picked me up and carried me out of the room. "You've been wearing out from going back and forth so many times. Give it a minute."

"So I take it this is a bad thing."

"Obviously. So when were you planning on listening to me?"

I laughed a lot more than I should have. "What's-his-bucket is up to something. We've been waiting for over a year, and I'm getting bored. You really thought I was going to just miss it and let you take all the glory? Think again. Besides, you did something to this necklace and I want you to fix it."

"Should I call you Captain Obvious, as you put it?"

"Shut up!" I tried kicking him, and then realized something. "Hey, my legs work! Woot!" Mr. Holmes kindly dumped me on the ground and let me take a look around.

The walls were falling apart and the paintings were torn to pieces by some vicious wolf. Paint chips formed a spectacular rainbow near the walls like a small creek. All around, ghosts were moaning, creaking, running into walls, floating listlessly around, and starting random fires. Teenagers curled up in their corners, twitching and talking to the voices. I could have batted away a few flies from their face, but they didn't care. In fact, the flies were thriving off their pale, withered figures. One or two authority figures tried to help who they could, but their ragged clothes hung off their scant frames like they hadn't eaten for days. They had no control whatsoever. The rest of the authorities were slumped in their chairs, almost dead from exhaustion and exposure. The roof was gone, and the sky was a hideous urple-sort-of-color. I have no idea what urple is, but I'm sure that that's what it was.

"What is this place?" I had to ask.

"What book provided the connection to this place?" Mr. Holmes asked after giving me a minute to gape and gawk.

"_Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_. Oh, this can't be _Harry Potter_."

"The unfortunate fact is that you're right. This world is falling apart at the seams. Welcome to Hogwarts. Are you ready to fix it?"


	3. Why I Carry Around A Glue Stick

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Carry Around A Glue Stick**

"As head of the Department of Literary Abuses, I have a responsibility to uphold certain standards of quality in the Literary world. Several weeks ago, I noticed the level of disintegration present in _Harry Potter_ and came to investigate. When I arrived, this place was far better off than it is now. This place is ripping apart at the seams. It's been worn out from over-used plots mostly employed by Fan Fiction. The characters have been put through more trauma by these writers than they were created to withstand. You think _this_ is bad, just wait until you've seen Harry Potter."

I just kept nodding while he gave his schpiel and led me down some convoluted labyrinth. Then I did the only thing I had been thinking of for so long: I ambushed him with a hug, and of course, he tried to squirm away from me. "I'm so happy you're alive!" I said.

"Me too. Now please get off."

"No. Oh my goodness, it's been so weird! First you disappeared, then you disappeared, and then you disappeared again! I lost my head and fell off the stage! Speaking of which, have you seen Austin?"

"Start from the beginning, Ms. Phan." He sounded a little exasperated.

"Austin said you were weird. Is that true?"

"Austin who?"

"Austin Holmes. He's playing you in a play, but he really wants to go into publishing like me. He's about a foot taller than me, _very_ musically talented, and boy is he cute."

Mr. Holmes pried me off him. "Whoever he is, I've never met him," he said, obviously annoyed. "Since your sanity has taken a leave of absence, let's change the subject and visit Harry Potter." He pushed a door open on the hinged side, which was labeled _Infirmarie_ on notebook paper.

We walked in and stopped at a bright red line painted on the floor. "Is this normal?" I asked.

"Yesterday it was green. The day before, it was a brick wall. Just look out for the disinfectants."

"The what?"

"Madame Pomfrey!" he called. "Two to see Harry Potter!"

A nun with an AK-47 popped out from behind a gurney. "_WHAT_ is your name?" she demanded.

Mr. Holmes nudged my ribs, which was his way of saying, she's talking you. "Rhiannon Phan," I said.

"_WHAT_ is your quest?"

"Um. . . to seek the holy grail?" I got jabbed _hard_ in the ribs for that. What? I couldn't help it.

"The holy grail?" she repeated incredulously. She lowered her gun in curiosity.

"By the name of Harry Potter."

She chuckled and dropped the gun. "Ha ha, I like this girl, Sherlock. Where'd you pick her up?"

"In a rainy alley being chased by monsters," he said quickly. "Madame Pomfrey – Harry Potter. Now."

She grumbled a bit and went to the wall. A huge set of keys appeared in one hand and her wand in the other. She jammed a key into the wall and a vault door appeared. "Hold still Rhiannon. _Avada Kedavra!_"

I didn't have time to run, but I did let out a good scream when the spell hit us. I stood stunned for a moment to let the green light leave my eyes, while Mr. Holmes brushed dust off his sleeves. "I'm alive!" I gasped, dust choking me. I took a good look at myself and found white dust all over me. "What _is_ this?"

"Dead germs, dead skin cells, a whole lot of dandruff, oils – you name it." Mr. Holmes handed me a blue nurse's mask and gown. "Best sterilization possible."

I stared at him and coughed some dust out of my system. I felt like a mummy that had just awoken. "I hate to see what's in the vault."

Madame Pomfrey, oblivious to my discomfort of terror, punched in some numbers on a keypad, scanned her palm print, took a retinal scan, and got an x-ray to confirm her identity. After the last confirmation, the door unlatched and swung open with a groan to reveal yet another door.

"I can't tell if this is The Incredibles or Mission: Impossible," I muttered.

Oddly enough, Mr. Holmes chuckled in spite of himself.

"Oh my fruit snacks, he smiles."

"Hush."

This next door was covered in sticky, tangled, and complicated spells, obviously designed with Madame Pomfrey in mind. She mindlessly disarmed them to open the door, behind which was yet another door. A camera on an arm extended out and asked us, "_Who enters Harry Potter's chamber?_"

"It's me, Pomfrey with a couple of guests."

**"Have I met this one before?"** it asked as it examined Mr. Holmes closely.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he answered clearly and curtly.

The camera seemed to accept him before it turned to me. **"And this one. Who is she? Is she literary?"**

"No, she's from the readers' world," Mr. Holmes explained. "She's a good friend of mine, and I think that the rules can be bent just this once – "

**"NO! My rules and laws were never created to be ignored, bent, broken, NOTHING! The laws will stand, and this girl will not enter!"**

"I am not just a girl!" I shouted. "I am Rhiannon Phan! And if you're going to insult me, you're going to use my name!"

The silence that followed poisoned us all. The eye of the camera stared at me for a moment and blinked a couple times. In that time, I wasn't sure if we were going to be shot or incinerated. Then the camera pulled back and several _clicks_ of unlatching doors followed. As the door we were standing at opened, we watched several more doors down the hall unlatch and swing slowly open with their own _hisses_.

"What just happened?" Still not sure who said that. It could have been any of us. Being Captain Obvious, it was probably me. Then again, it could have been Mr. Holmes asking Madame Pomfrey what she had done to the security system since he last saw it. And again, Madame Pomfrey could have been wondering what had gone wrong. Either way, I just started walking to Harry Potter with Mr. Holmes just barely on my tail.

At the end of the hall, we met a simple door. No passwords, no keys, no scans. I placed my hand on the doorknob, but I couldn't turn it.

"How bad is he?" I asked.

Mr. Holmes handed me a handkerchief and opened the door.

Three beds were laid out in a row. I didn't think there was anyone actually in them until I looked very close. They were nearly skeletons if not for the thin, pale skin that held them together. They had that half deteriorated look of Holocaust survivors. Their hair had fallen out long ago, leaving scarred scalps and faces of terror. In their yellow, bloodshot eyes, I could see that they knew, and that they knew that I knew, that they should have been long since dead.

Standing by one of the beds was a tall, arrogant man with long, greasy black hair and a hooked nose. The absence of sunlight was prominent in his pale, gothic skin. When he heard me sniffing, he turned to greet us. "Hello, Holmes," he said without any emotion.

"Good morning, Professor."

"Really? Already? Time certainly flies down here."

"Professor, this is Rhiannon Phan. Ms. Phan, Professor Severus Snape."

I could barely say anything. "That's going to be one thoroughly used handkerchief. I hope you'll get used to this, Phan," Professor Snape said sympathetically.

While Mr. Holmes and Prof. Snape discussed Potter's condition, about how he and his friends were getting steadily worse, I took a look at another patient. The clipboard at the end of the bed said that the corpse's name was Hermione Granger. Without her hair, I couldn't really tell. I took a seat by her bed and just watched her struggled breathing.

Suddenly her eyes shot open and she turned to me. She was gasping and flailing, trying to speak, but nothing coherent would come from her lips.

"Hermione, don't," I whispered. "You can't help us at this point. You're exhausted. Go back to sleep. You probably know everything, what's causing this, how to fight it, how to stop it, but we have to figure it out on our own. We have to save you."

She gave me the fiercest glare and I saw her eyes. They were full of hope and despair, pity and anger, love and regret.

"And silver. You've got a Shadow Beast in you," I muttered.

"We all do," Prof. Snape interrupted. "Have a seat over here and I can explain everything."


	4. Why I Hate The Walking Dead

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Hate The Walking Dead**

Oh, hey, Rhee here. Um, Mr. Holmes, in the interest of the readers, would like to say a few words. Actually several words. He does have quite a gob, so be careful not to get caught –

_Ms. Phan!_

What!

_Are you finished yet?_

Um . . . yes.

_Good._

_Dear Readers: Due to concerns that you may not have completed all seven of J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter_ books, I am posting what you may call a 'spoiler warning.' Ms. Phan and I, at this point in the narrative, were in between the sixth and seventh novels. While most of the plot had fallen apart by then, a few important pieces remained intact, specifically Character Deaths. So, if you wish to read _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ without any so-called 'spoilers' beforehand, please skip this chapter, and perhaps the rest of this story. If you absolutely must read this pathetic piece of literature– _

Hey!

–_please keep in mind that I have warned you._

_Best wishes: Sherlock Holmes_

Grrr.

Like I was saying, he does have quite a gob, so be careful not to get caught in a conversation with him when he's hot on the trail of something, because he really likes to think aloud, and if you're in the same room with him, you will know every last detail in the case and every possible, impossible, and improbable solution, which gets a little ann–

_Ms. Phan, you are hardly proving your point._

So?

_Could you just 'shut up' and get back to the story?_

* * *

"I have about seven of these Shadow Beasts in here," Professor Snape said, pointing to his head. "These three have about thirty between them." 

"I can't even handle one," I said in amazement. "What's so different about you guys?"

"We're not exactly sure, but whatever has happened to us is not because of these Silver Spirits. Potter's condition was caused by plot exhaustion. The Silver Spirits are just . . . _here_."

This concept was very confusing. "So the Shadow Beasts aren't doing anything," I said.

"Correct."

"And Harry's being worn out by FanFiction."

"Yes."

"Which the Shadow Beasts didn't cause."

"Right." Professor Snape is a very patient man.

"In other words, the Shadow Beasts are benign."

"Exactly."

"They're not a point of real conflict right now. Which means I don't have to really deal with them. _**YES!!!!**_" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Mr. Holmes and Prof. Snape jumped. "This is going to be so different."

"Not really," Mr. Holmes corrected. "As soon as they realize that we're free and susceptible, we'll be gargantuan targets." Please note that he smiled as he said this. "They could also be the ones that are exacerbating the situation already at hand. I'd still be wary if I were you."

"Ruin the ending, why don't you."

"The Silver Spirits aren't the real problem," Prof. Snape cut in. "My world is falling apart and it must be fixed or at least kept alive until the story is solidified."

"Finished," Mr. Holmes clarified in response to my obviously questioning look. "They've only one book to go, but if the world fails before it can be read, the result will be disastrous. Lord of the Rings experienced a similar readership phenomenon, but was complete when it was published and when the films were released. The same decomposition might have happened to my world, except my cases had almost nothing to do with each other. Nothing was open ended. However, _here_, J.K. Rowling has left thousands of loose ends, each unraveling rapidly. The readers and writers have twisted them around so much that everything is fraying."

"So, what, we have to weave the ends back together?" I asked in confusion.

"No. That's J.K. Rowling's job. We need to make sure there are ends _to _weave back together. Figuratively, of course."

"And where do we find such figurative ends?"

* * *

The dungeons, of course. 

Mr. Holmes went to the Room of Requirement since both of us knew he would most likely find something there that would be of assistance. Mr. Holmes sent me to the dungeons since both of us knew that there was absolutely nothing to find down there.

We went our separate ways and within three minutes, I was utterly lost. Raise your hand if you were surprised. Yeah, Mr. Holmes wasn't either. I guess that's why Prof. Dumbledore was following me.

I found myself in the main hall and/or the kitchens wherever I turned. Thanks to readers screwing up the layout of the school, it was turned into a labyrinth with seven main halls, three Gryffindor common-rooms, and thirteen infirmaries. I was almost grateful when someone tapped my shoulder to give me assistance. And a map. I turned around to find the kindred face of Prof. Dumbledore looking down at my confusion with mirth spelled out in his expression. "You seem to be hopelessly lost," he chuckled.

"Yeah. Where are the dungeons?"

He hooked my arm through his and led me away from the gigantic multi-purpose room. "Why would you possibly want to go there?"

"Because. . . I don't know. I really do not know. Maybe it's because I'm supposed to be doing something that I don't even know how to do."

"Where is your friend Sherlock Holmes?" he asked cautiously. "Perhaps he knows."

"The Room of Requirement. He's probably getting somewhere."

"So he doesn't know where you are." We started going down a long and winding staircase that grew darker every step of the way. Prof. Dumbledore had a wand-light, but even that was dimming.

"Psh. I don't know where _I _am."

He smiled and I though I heard him whisper, "Perfect," as he tightened his grip on my arm.

"Um, I think there's something I'm supposed to remember about you." I tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but his grip was inhumanly strong. "Something about you being dead. Thrown out a window and whatnot."

He dragged me through a small corridor with thick cell doors on either side. The walls and doors were crooked from the pressure of the castle and the fact that the dungeons were sinking into the earth. Some of the doors had cracked off of their hinges and others wouldn't open or close because of the angle of the floor. Dumbledore was looking for one that was still intact.

"So, what are you a zombie?" I continued, hoping to distract him. Where's a monkey wrench when you need one?

"Of course not," he smiled. A silver smile. A smile with long, sharp, silver teeth. Crap. From one pocket, he withdrew a long syringe full of a strange blue liquid. "What is Holmes looking for?"

"He-doesn't-tell-me-anything-something-to-fix-the-story-re-weave-the-ends-back-together-you're-not-going-to-stick-that-in-me-are-you-are-you-are-you-don't-kill-me-don't-put-that-in-my-arm!"

He didn't stick it in my arm. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and injected it into my neck. The world went hazy as he casually tossed me into my chosen cell. I watched the door close and slowly fell into the darkness.

* * *

At some point, I came to and realized that I wasn't actually dead. That doesn't mean I immediately got up and started pounding on the door. I stayed in some sort of paralyzed state, unable to move or feel anything. For ten minutes, I laid on the ground breathing very slowly and evenly. Then I felt my fingers and arms tingle, telling me that they still lived. I forced them to move, grab the floor, and drag me. It was exhausting, but I needed it. 

Something in the corner began to gleam, so I aimed for that. When my upper body came to life, the dragging and crawling got a little bit easier. After a good forty minutes of pulling and scraping, I reached the corner and found . . . dirt. But gleaming dirt nonetheless.

"Ms. Phan!" I heard from the hallway. "Ms. Phan! Rhiannon!" Mr. Holmes.

"I'm in here," I whispered, no strength for a shout. What could I do? I was one-hundred and thirty-two percent helpless. The dirt. There had to be an answer in the dirt.

"Rhiannon! Rhiannon Phan!"

I clawed at the dirt like a dog. I felt so slow, so sluggish, so stupid, but I felt something hard as I was digging, so I kept going.

"Ms. Phan, are you in here?" I heard just outside my door.

"I'm here," I breathed. No good. Try again. "Help," I said with a little more strength. "Help me Mr. Holmes! Help me. Get me out of here!" Each word was said with deliberate force, but hope ebbed away from my heart. My face dissolved into tears and I couldn't keep talking. What was this feeling taking control of me? This wasn't me.

The door clicked and swung open; Mr. Holmes stood in the doorway with a torch in his hand, but I was too ashamed to even look at him. I went back to my hole. "Ms. Phan, what are you doing?"

"I have to get it out. It's here. I have to get it out."

Mr. Holmes, after assessing my condition, knelt next to me and helped me dig. Soon, he uncovered a small wooden box, pulled it out, and set it aside. I reached for it, but he caught my hand and handed me a handkerchief. "Relax. Take a rest." He sat against the wall and invited me to do the same.

I curled up next to him and took a few deep breaths. "How did you know?"

"I met a nice lad by the name of Cedric Diggory who wanted to know what I was seeking, how close I was, and how much I valued you alive. Of course my suspicions were raised and I avoided the questions. After a failed attempt on my life, I disposed of the boy and realized you were at the same risk. Therefore, I came after you. Obviously the Shadow Beasts got to you first. Who was it? Dumbledore?" I nodded shamefully. "Figures that you would trust him. What did he drug you with?"

"I don't know," I said quickly, and I curled up even more. The memory was short, but filled with so much terror. "It was blue."

He looked at me for so long that I unconsciously touched where the needle stabbed me. Mr. Holmes gently removed my hands to inspect the site. "He missed the vein. You need to see Madame Pomfrey." I shuddered at the thought. "I know you hate hospitals, but I promise she is different. No needles involved."

I gave it some thought and decided that I liked the crazy nun with an AK-47. First things first though. "What's in the box?"

Mr. Holmes broke the box open by hammering it with my shoe. Inside, after clearing away the wreckage, we found a golden book. Across the front, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ graced us with his presence, while Harry cast a powerful spell to defeat the Dark Lord on the back. Centered on the bottom was a digital clock reading 11:43:32 and counting down. "Eleven hours," Mr. Holmes mused. "Until what?"

"It's the twentieth," I realized.

He opened the book, but the pages were blank except for the words, "We invite you to read the seventh and final installment of Harry Potter when the time comes. Wait your turn, punk."

"When was this book published?" he continued.

"It's not released until tomorrow. At midnight. We have eleven hours and forty-two minutes until the story is complete."

"Brilliant! Hogwarts should hold for that long."

On the other hand, perhaps not. We felt a shudder pass through the ground beneath us. A second later, the walls started groaning and creaking. Dust poured down from shifted stones and the door cracked from the doorframe settling on it. I could hear crumbling and tumbling rocks a few cells down and I knew exactly what was going on.

"The dungeons are collapsing. Run."


	5. Why I Don't Get Along With Snape

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Don't Get Along With Snape**

So, walls crashing down around us, I'm pretty much paralyzed, Mr. Holmes is frustrated because we're quickly becoming trapped – I'd say we were in a fairly poor position. I tried to grab the book, and Mr. Holmes, being a gentleman, picked me up to get us to safety. Then when things couldn't get worse, the ceiling decided to explode.

"Holmes! Phan! Up here!" For some reason, we were reasonably happy with the fact that Snape showed up. However, we weren't too excited about his mode of entry. Anyway, he grabbed my hands and helped me out of the cell while Holmes jumped out after me.

"How do we get to the Infirmarie?" Mr. Holmes demanded.

Snape, already realizing that something was seriously wrong with me, shook his head. "No time. I have just the thing." Once again, I was picked up – this time by Snape, who just threw me over his shoulder – and hauled off down the crumbling halls. I was too exhausted to complain about my mode of transportation or the attitude of my vehicle. Mr. Holmes does a better job anyway.

We arrived all too soon at Snape's storeroom. I would have preferred it if we were further away from the earthquake area. Snape set me down in a corner and started searching the shelves lining the walls. I heard him muttering each name as he inspected each bottle of potions and ingredients. After a minute, he started tossing the rejected bottles onto the floor where they shattered at my feet. The ruined potions curled and smoked before they died.

"Don't you have it?" Mr. Holmes snapped.

"I have it, I have everything! I . . . just can't find it."

"Well what's the name? Let me help."

"I don't remember. I'll know when I see it!"

I could see Mr. Holmes trying his best not to strangle the Professor with the Rope in the Potions Storeroom. Thank heavens we weren't playing Cluedo.

Several long and tedious minutes later, Snape snatched a bottle and shouted, "Eureka!"

I swallowed the contents as quickly as I could and choked on the fiery taste going down my throat. Snape turned my head to look at the mark on my neck. "It's working. Slowly, but it's working."

Mr. Holmes stared at me with clear relief in his eyes. "Good man." He patted Snape's shoulder as he stood up. "I'm going back to the Room of Requirement. Take care of her."

Just after he left, I realized something. "Oh. I didn't get a good-bye."

* * *

Snape was getting nervous. Mr. Holmes had only been gone for twenty minutes and I hadn't recovered any significant strength. The tremors and quaking were growing stronger and Snape paced the storeroom in agitation. Suddenly he stopped, fixed his gaze on a certain potion, and studied it. A moment later he picked it up, but continued to pace in indecision. 

Five minutes later, he finally made up his mind. "Rhiannon, I have an idea that you'll probably hate me for."

"You're kind of well known for that sort of thing, aren't you."

"Smart aleck."

"What is it?"

"Well, I'm not sure because the effects could have been purely psychological. I'm hoping not."

"Professor! What is it?"

"It's . . . like an energy drink."

I laughed skeptically but took the bottle anyway. Inside, the potion swirled and slammed into the sides, making it hard to hold steady. I uncorked it and swallowed it in one gulp. This one was even more violent, nearly cutting off my air supply and sending me into convulsions. My entire body felt like I was being _Crucio_-ed and roasted on a spit fire.

Three minutes of intense pain later, I sneezed and found myself against the opposite wall with a crater where my back was. After taking in the situation momentarily, I shot up and started cleaning up Snape's mess.

"Nope. Definitely _not_ psychological."

Mr. Holmes returned to find me doing laps around the room. "Snape, I found J– what did you do to her?"

Snape seemed to shrink beneath his suspicious gaze. "I gave her a massive dose of adrenaline."

"How massive?"

"She'll be like this for three to eight days," he said quickly. "What did you find?"

"Three to eight days! No sleep, no calm, no chance for her heartbeat to slow down? You're going to kill us! And her! She's already hyperventilating at a dangerous rate!"

"What'd you find?" I jumped in.

"Oh, they're holding J.K. Rowling in the Room of – Ms. Phan wait!"

But I was already gone, running down the hall and out of the dungeons with Holmes and Snape hot on my heels. Good thing too because the walls were falling down behind us. I felt completely and utterly exhausted and yet so full of energy that I could run for ages. I hated it, but I couldn't stop. I wanted rest, but I couldn't stop.

I ran to the kitchens and went down the counters, knocking over pots and pans and dishes that weren't right. Once in a while, I found some silver silverware and pocketed it. I finally hit the mother load when I found a silver kettle. Just for good measure, I completed my run down the counters just to knock everything off.

"Rhiannon, do _not_ kill the guards!" Mr. Holmes shouted after me. "Under _no_ circumstances should you kill them! Do you hear me?"

"Yep!"

"Meet us back at the Infirmarie!"

"Yep!"

I don't know why they didn't want to come along with me, but I kept running anyway. After running out of breath, I realized that we had run quite a long distance and Mr. Holmes and Snape probably couldn't keep up with an adrenaline-pumped Mary-Sue. Even though I could barely breathe, I kept running for all I was worth.

I turned the corner and encountered three spells headed my way sent by Dumbledore and some guy that looked like Cedric Diggory. One hit me full force in my stomach while another caught my weapon arm. Both sent me flying into the floor and formed cement manacles that bound me down.

"You should really work on your subtlety," Cedric sneered as he stood over me.

"How did you get out of the dungeons?" Dumbledore mumbled. He approached me carefully, thinking I was smarter than I looked.

He was right. As a hyper Mary-Sue, I had two tricks up my sleeve. One was a free arm. The other was a special ability called Anorexia.

As soon as Cedric turned away for a second, I grabbed the kettle with my free hand, swung it as hard as I could, and sent him flying just as I slid out of my stone confinement. Dumbledore sent one spell after me that I caught with my kettle and another that I dodged. I swung once again with all my strength and caught him in the jaw with a nasty _crack_.

I found a door and burst it open with my shoulder, which was really unnecessary because it was already open. I was just about to say hello to whoever was in there when I felt a large blunt object descend upon my head and shatter over my neck and back.

I turned to look at a lady that held the neck of a broken vase. She looked at me with horror.

"Ow. That wasn't very nice." I touched the back of my head and felt blood.

"Don't hurt me." She set the vase down like it was a gun and she was surrendering.

"Are you J.K. Rowling? Cause if you are, that's really good. Either way, let's go to the Infirmarie."

"Don't you mean 'Infirmary?'"

"No, I mean 'Infirmarie.' You'll see what I mean."


	6. Why I Love Roller Coasters

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Love Roller Coasters**

J.K. Rowling is a nice lady when she's sane.

J.K. Rowling is a mean lady when she's insane.

Lucky for us, she was mainly in shock, which meant she didn't understand a thing we were saying. Although I think she would have understood better if I hadn't been trying to help.

Her attempt to summarize went like so: "So Dumbledore, Diggory, and Black have taken over the school by infecting you all with silver?"

My response: "Exactly."

Mr. Holmes tried to get rid of his migraine by kneading his forehead. "Ms. Phan, could you _please_ remain silent for _three minutes!_ Shadow Beasts have taken over the bodies of the dead in order to wreak havoc on this world. They try to infect the living characters, but they're immune. Instead, the Shadow Beasts just live in their bodies. We know that they're vulnerable to water and silver and--"

"What do you mean, 'characters?'" J.K. Rowling asked.

"This is _your_ book," I explained. "This is all Harry Potter." So, apparently, I can't shut up.

"Then what are you doing here? Who are you? One of those moronic Mary-Sues that can't put two words together in a sentence?"

Mr. Holmes had to put me in a headlock to keep me from ripping J.K. apart. "I am Sherlock Holmes," he tried to calmly explain, "and this lovely lady is Rhiannon Phan. She's only here to help and the only way she can do so is as a Mary Sue, so this isn't exactly what she looks like. Or sounds like. Or acts like."

"Mr. Holmes, _let me go!_"

"She's a reader? Then what are you doing in The Deathly Hallows? I could sue you for this," she threatened. See what I mean? Insane.

"This is Book Six, crazy lady! LET ME KILL HER!"

Just then, Madame Pomfrey popped out from behind a gurney, gun and nun and all. J.K. screamed, I laughed devilishly, Mr. Holmes dropped me, and Snape ran into a cupboard of medicines, which subsequently crashed to the ground. "I'll replace them," he said quickly. "I promise." I don't know what it is about her, but she makes us all nervous. Maybe it's the nun part. Or the Uzi part. Where does she get her guns?

"There's been a change in Potter's condition," she said in a grave monotone.

Mr. Holmes swore under his breath. Something about accursed Shadow Beasts. Snape agreed. "If only there was a way to get rid of them."

That's when I had a flash of inspiration. Not 'flashy' because it was a good idea at any length, but because it struck me like lightning. Without pausing to think, I swung my kettle at Snape's head. It wasn't _hard_, by any means, but hard enough.

Snape was knocked off his feet, but more importantly, the Shadow Beasts in his head were knocked out and hit the wall. Without missing a beat, Mr. Holmes grabbed a spray bottle and soaked the suckers until they disappeared.

Madame Pomfrey, Snape, and J.K. stared at us in silence. "That's one way," J.K. said. "Violent, but it works."

"There's no way you're doing that to Potter," Pomfrey warned.

"I have plenty of silverware, though," I offered, tossing a spoon to Snape. He only glared back at me while rubbing his head. "Don't look at me like that. You deserved it."

"What's wrong with Harry?" J.K. jumped in.

"He's lucky to be alive." Okay, I'll admit it. The things that go from my brain to my mouth do not pass Go, do not collect Tact.

"I'd show you," Madame Pomfrey said, "but the room is–"

Suddenly, the floor lurched and we were all sent flying. The room felt like it was moving forward and slightly upwards, then took a sudden left and shot down, much like a roller coaster. Everyone scrambled to find something to hold before the room shifted direction again. I, on the other hand, decided it would be a fantastic idea to stand in the middle of the room and try to keep my balance. Why was this a bad idea? 1. It's impossible to balance on a roller coaster. 2. It bugged Mr. Holmes. Why was this a good idea? 1. It's impossible to balance on a roller coaster. 2. It bugged Mr. Holmes. Such simple pleasures!

The room continued moving like this for several minutes. Absolutely everything was knocked off the shelves and out of the cupboards. The beds were all thrown askew and Madame Pomfrey's Uzi let off a few errant shots. Thankfully no one important was hit. When the ride eventually came to a full and complete stop, most of us were pretty wobbly. Especially me. When I tried to walk straight, I ran into a wall and then into the door before the idea occurred to me that I should just sit down.

"What was _that_ all about?" J.K. Rowling eventually asked.

Madame Pomfrey finished her sentence. "The room was scheduled for a shift. We are now located in a different part of the castle."

"I assume that the purpose is to hide us from the Shadow Beasts."

"No. To hide Potter and his friends. You simply happened to be here."

"Just like the Shadow Beasts and their World-Eater," J.K. said sarcastically.

"What World-Eater?" Mr. Holmes and I chorused. Undoubtedly, we had unwittingly hit on something huge. Anything with a name like World-Eater had to be bad – both cliche-wise and plot-wise.

"The one Albus and Cedric didn't want you to find at all costs. Said that if it didn't destroy Harry, nothing would."

"Makes sense," my motor-mouth said. "The whole book's in Harry's point of view – not the world. I guess it would make more sense to call it a _Word_-Eater. Or a Word Processor. Like a food processor, except it chops up words and turns them into – I should shut up now, shouldn't I." The room nodded at me. That's my support system down the drains. "Okay, do we have a plan?"

* * *

I have said this once before. I do not like plans. Why I asked for a plan, I do not know. Perhaps it was so I could try to ruin it in my super-hyped-up state. Whatever the purpose, Mr. Holmes saw right through me and decided that we would go shut down the Word-Eater and figure everything else out from there. In other words, How are we going to keep Rhiannon busy while Mr. Holmes carries out his plan? I should have gone with J.K. Rowling to stay with Harry Potter. I should have gone with Snape to gather the remaining students together. I should have been sent on my own pointless mission to gather more silver. But I didn't. I went with Mr. Holmes because I could do the least damage to him. 

I've discovered that Mr. Holmes and I cannot carry out a conversation without arguing. Yes, you may have already figured this out because you are far more insightful than I, but give me a break. I don't like to notice these things. This particular conversation practically solidified Mr. Holmes' point that everything was my fault. For this reason, I will not lower myself to type it out. Either way, it's his fault because he shouldn't have gotten stuck in Harry Potter so I wouldn't have come to get him out so I wouldn't have gotten drugged so Snape wouldn't have given me a shot of adrenaline so I wouldn't have knocked out Dumbledore so we couldn't get any information. All his fault.

We finally reached the Room of Requirement where I should have tied up Dumbledore when I had the chance. Mr. Holmes opened the door, but the scene was far different than the room I found J.K. in. "Hey, Mr. Holmes, I'm confused."

"What have I said about stating the obvious?" He didn't snap at me because he was trying to insult me, but he did sound irritated. He started crawling around the floor with his magnifying glass to find footprints besides his. I knew he wouldn't like it if I was to walk around the room, so I stayed in the hall and did some sit-ups.

"That it bugs you. But I don't get it. If the Word-Eater was in the Room when you were exploring it, why didn't you find it? And why didn't you free J.K. when you had the chance before?"

"More than one Room of Requirement," he shouted from behind a desk where he had found something vaguely interesting.

"Oh yeah. So, if I was to write something that's related to Harry Potter, but wrong like a teleport, would it come true?"

"Probably." He examined some shoe-dust for a few seconds before getting a spark of realization. "Why?" he snapped.

"I was just thinking, what if we had a teleport to take us directly to the Word-Eater? I think we really need one just to get around the castle anyway."

There was a giant crash in the Room and an even louder cursing coming from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. I quit sitting-up to see what had happened while Mr. Holmes hopped out of the room dragging his left foot behind him. He landed next to me and sat against the wall.

"I see the Requirement part still works," I said off-handedly.

"Ms. Phan, keep your thoughts away from that room," he ordered.

"I did! I'm out here!"

"That room has very sensitive hearing. Keep your thoughts to yourself. I know that's impossible for you even without coffee, but try your hardest. Please."

"How's your foot? Did you break it, sprain it, what? How bad is it?"

"I don't know." He instantly regretted his words.

"We need a first aid kit."

There was a sound of a catapult and a large white box came flying out the door and would have hit Mr. Holmes' head if he hadn't ducked. "Thoughts to yourself, Ms. Phan!"

Using my girl scout training ( equivalent of three days! Woot!), I started splinting Mr. Holmes' foot. "Why do you call me that? I've always wanted to know. Probably proper Victorian properness, am I right? Did you know I was adopted? I don't really have any loyalty towards that name, Phan. I love it, but it's just not me. Every time I hear it, I know it's you saying it, but I have to wonder who you're talking to. Could you just call me Rhee? We've know each other for forever anyway."

He took a second to figure out an answer. By then I had finished his splint. "Rhiannon. As long as you drop the Mister. I'm getting tired of it."

"Oh goodie! Let's go see what's on the other side of the teleport!" Time for some ADD pills.


	7. Why I Refuse To Eat Applesauce

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Refuse To Eat Applesauce**

Holmes put on a brave face to hide his pain. It must be that super-hero complex that forces him to act like Monty Python's Black Knight. I don't get it. I saw him come out with a broken foot and I even bandaged it up. I knew that he was in pain, but he still felt the need to pretend that, "It's only a flesh wound." Maybe it's because he's a man. Makes sense; whenever I babysit little boys and they bump their head (by no fault of my own), they get a pained expression and then they're suddenly fine. You go, tough guy.

After finding a suitable crutch (_me. . ._), Holmes and I entered the Room of Requirement. He expected something to come flying at us, but all that appeared was a plate of fresh-baked cookies. Yeah, I was hungry, and I think loud.

The teleport machine looked like a giant tube of toothpaste, except it was clear, it had a door, it was more rounded at the bottom, and it had lights at the top. Still, it smelled minty-fresh and had a light on top that looked like a toothpaste cap. A couple yards away, a 'Star Trek'-esque control panel waited for instructions. Holmes immediately went to the control panel while I tried to go explore the toothpaste. I kind of got a silent lecture on being a good crutch.

"So how does it work?" I prodded. When he didn't answer, I shouted in horror, "You don't know!"

"Just give me a minute!"

So I gave him three seconds before I started pressing random buttons while singing "Twinkle, Twinkle." (So it was stuck in my head. So what?) Before he could get mad at me, the screen came to life and the machine started humming in a good way. The screen lit up with an image of a room with a big turnip-shaped machine. "Cool! Let's go!"

Holmes grabbed my arm before I could run away. "Test it first."

I growled, but found an apple to put in the tube. Then came the tricky part – finding the right switch. "What about that big threatening red one?" I asked.

"The one that should never be pressed under any circumstance? _No._"

He kept searching, but that button was so _tempting_. I reached out for it when he wasn't paying attention to me. _Closer. . . closer. . . Whack!_ Holmes slapped my hand away. Dang. One more try, same result. Finally, Holmes picked a button.

The apple started to glow softly – nothing to be worried about. It started vibrating – must be normal for teleportation – then shaking. Sparks flew much in the same fashion a sparkler would. Or a magnesium burn. Or my oven. Maybe about then we started to think that this could be dangerous. I found some gorgeous sunglasses right about then, and put them on. Then suddenly – **BAM!!!** We succeeded in creating charcoal flavored applesauce. (And how do I know? I forgot to close the door. The next time I spill food on me, I will not lick it off, no matter how tasty it looks or how hungry I am.)

"You can go first," I said sweetly.

Holmes gave me a very strange look. "Another try."

"Fine. But only if we press my button."

"It's probably a self-destruct."

"Why would a teleport machine have a self-destruct?"

"How should I know? It's your machine."

"Well, since it's mine, I want to push the button." Finally, some Mary-Sue logic even _he_ couldn't argue with. Grudgingly, he let me put another apple in the tube and push the button.

The apple glowed blue for a moment before vanishing. On the screen, the apple appeared in the room, safe and juicy. All seemed well until the screen flickered and _BLAM!_ My beautiful apple became applesauce. I fell to my knees and howled, "_NOOOOO!!!!_"

Holmes saw something else in the explosion or in the room. He examined the screen for the longest time before placing my plate of cookies (!) in the tube and pressing the button. It disappeared just like before, blue light and all. Holmes stared at the screen as the apple appeared.

"There." He jabbed at the hems of a wizard's robe just as the apple exploded again. "It's Dumbledore."

"Yes! Wait. . . No! Wait, Yes! No! My cheer mechanism hurts."

"Well which is more important?" Holmes explained. "Being right or dead?"

I gave it some thought. "Right."

Holmes was trying his best to be patient with me. "What do you say to a walking bomb?" Like he knew would happen, I smiled, imagined it, and there it was walking towards us. "Good. Now put it in the chamber."

"Would you stop destroying my stuff!"

"The potion didn't dissolve your brain into that of a five-year-old. Now put it in the chamber before it goes off!" Oh. So my little bomb scurried over to the tube, glowed blue, and was gone. Goodbye little bomb. Okay, I admit, it was a nasty little bomb.

We watched as it moved off the platform, attracting the attention of three certain wizards. As soon as they were close enough to poke it a couple times, it went off, but it wasn't like a regular bomb. It was a very close range blast, but I didn't realize before that it was made with pure silver. I also didn't realize that my imagination was so violent. The bomb shot out little shards of silver, which embedded themselves in Dumbledore, Diggory, and Black. The result was. . . nasty.

Holmes was very disappointed. I thought taking out the villains was at least progress, but I think he was hoping that the bomb would at least take out the machine.

"We'll have to shut it down manually," he finally announced before hobbling into the teleport tube. "You can press the button now."

"Thanks," I answered with equal sarcasm. "I'll be right behind you."

It was just after I had sent Holmes to the Machine Room that I realized why he went first. How was I supposed to press the button from the tube?

Eventually I figured out that the button was big enough that I could throw something at it – like an apple. I took an armful of apples and stepped into the tube. It took me twenty-three tries, but eventually I hit it.

Remember that whole 'brave face' thing? I'm so glad Holmes used it because teleportation really isn't for me. It's not painful, but you feel every molecule in your body being separated, sent through space and time, and rearranged. It actually takes a lot longer than it looks. And as a general rule of thumb, close your eyes when you teleport so you don't see the whole thing. It's kind of freaky and your eyes get really dried out. Anyway, I appeared in the other room quite shaken. In fact, I think my adrenaline spiked again.

Holmes had dragged the bodies away and was staring at the machine. "Um," I started, "are you going to do something?"

"Eventually," he whispered back. "Think it's asleep yet?" Is _what_ asleep? I took a closer look at the machine and found nothing. Suddenly, a _snort!_ filled the air and the room smelled like smoke.

"That wasn't the machine. Was it?" I said with one hand covering my mouth and nostrils. When Holmes shook his head, I snuck around the machine despite his trying to pull me back. Curled up next to the heat coming from the vents was a purple-and-blue scaled monstrosity with huge webbed wings and large, dangerous talons. A long, serpentine neck turned a reptilian head that puffed smoke from its nostrils with every breath. Clutched in one taloned 'hand' was a stuffed sleepy bunny. The beast looked fearsome and terrible, but so sweet with its little toy.

I turned back to Holmes. "That is the _cutest_ dragon I have ever seen!"

"It's the _only_ dragon you've ever seen. Get back here!"

"Can I keep him?"

"_No!_" It's funny how he can yell and whisper at the same time.

There was a _yawn_ that filled the air. I looked back and saw the dragon stretching out its wings, tail and talons. Then he turned to me and immediately became alert. He seemed to raise up in an attack stance, which Holmes saw. "I'll distract it," he said, "you run."

I tried to be quietly incredulous. "Where? And better yet, why?"

"Why?! Don't be stupid! It's going to kill you!"

"Are you?" I asked the dragon pointedly. He shook his enormous head and narrowed his eyes at Holmes. "I think it's safe to say that I am safe to stay. You on the other hand. . ."

"Alright!" he relented. "Just help me turn this machine off." He hobbled over to the control panel and started pressing whatever looked like a power button.

"Okie-doke. What do you want me to do?"

"Entertain the dragon; don't bother me for a few minutes." Easy enough.

In seven minutes of intense conversation, I discovered five things. One, This dragon did not have a real name, and was depressed about it. Two, this dragon does not have any family. Three, dragons, even dragons from magical books, cannot speak. Four, I cannot go without talking for three seconds when someone is around that will listen. Except I talk whenever no one's around too. Five, sometimes Holmes needs to quit being Holmes and just take the easy route. For instance, when he has an instruction manual and a dragon at his disposal, he should just go for the dragon. I'm surprised it took him this long to figure that out.

"Rhiannon," he said, tossing the instruction manual aside, "could you ask your dragon – "

"I can keep him?!"

"No. See if he could just destroy this thing."

The dragon, who I decided to name Arthur, gave me a quick nod and proceeded to tear the machine to bits with his teeth and talons. After opening up the exterior, he flambé-ed the circuitry inside. There was an explosion inside the machine, and suddenly, the floor began to shake and loose items began to dance on the surrounding shelves. _Not again. . ._

Arthur knew this was a bad thing just as much as we did, so he quit making flambé and ushered us out of the room. I, of course, acted as Holmes' crutch once again, so we didn't exactly make good time. Arthur took us to a specific corner of the room where a dumbwaiter waited for us. (And no, this isn't what I was thinking of as an escape, although I did like the idea.)

Holmes jumped inside first and figured out how to control the direction while I climbed in next to him. It was an oversized dumbwaiter, but still rather cramped and quite awkward. I think it was Holmes that said, "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end." What I wouldn't give to be short again.

"Ready?"

"Oh yeah."


	8. Why I Hate Dumbwaiters

**Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction**

**Why I Hate Dumbwaiters  
**

"Your elbow is jabbing my knee!"

"You're kicking my face!"

"Quit kneeling on my foot!"

"Stop stepping on me! Ouch!"

"Then move your hands!"

Don't get stuck with a crank, cramped Holmes, or a cranky cramped Rhee. Holmes stopped as soon as we reached an opening to a room. We didn't care _what_ room it was as long as we could get out and stretch. A nice lady's voice announced that this was, "North Tower, top floor." Okay, we definitely weren't in that dumbwaiter _that_ long.

Holmes inspected the scene from the window. One tower was completely collapsed as a result of the tremor. "Hm. I would think there would be more damage. Ms. Rowling has done well healing the place."

"I was kind of hoping that destroying the Word Eater would mean instant healing. All we did was knock down a tower."

"The disintegration has been stopped. No more earthquakes." He gave me a small, reassuring smile, but I knew there was something he was hiding. "Let's go." We climbed back into the dumbwaiter and we started going up again.

The next room we broke into smelled like a rich, warm fire. The room was filled with burgundy and gold with Gryphons standing over the doors. "This is the Gryffindor common room. I'm. . . _pretty_ sure this is on a lower floor. And in a different tower," said I. "Are you sure we're going up?"

"Hogwarts also has changing staircases, Room_s_ of Requirement, and flying brooms," Holmes answered, "so I wouldn't be worried. Logic doesn't work in this place. And yes, we _are_ going up."

Passing the dungeons did not reassure me one bit. Holmes saw the look I was giving him and , exasperated, said, "Look, do you want to do the pulling for a bit? No? Didn't think so."

I wasn't too impressed when we passed the Mail Room. I mean, it was nearly a separate building and all, but I wasn't happy with the owls. They don't really like me. As soon as they saw us, they swarmed the dumbwaiter and attacked me. Not Holmes – just me. I swear he was moving slow on purpose just so the little buggers could bite and claw and rip pieces of my flesh off to eat later. Thankfully the dumbwaiter was too small for any owls to get stuck inside. And yes, Holmes was chuckling at me.

"Final stop: Quidditch field," the dumbwaiter's nice lady voice announced.

"Everybody out," Holmes echoed. I tumbled out onto the field since we were on the ground floor of the west bleachers. The entire stadium was empty except for us and the field that felt like a ghost town. A mist surrounded us and muffled our footsteps. I felt very claustrophobic.

"Why are we here?" I had to ask.

"Why not?" As good a question anyone could ask for. "Couldn't go anywhere else and we're away from any danger if an earthquake hits. Again."

"I have a really, _really_ bad feeling about this place." Unfortunately, I soon learned that I really, _really_ should keep my mouth shut because no matter how really, _really_ bad it is, saying you have a bad feeling only makes things a _whole_ lot worse.

Out in the middle of the field, we found shards of something metallic and fragile. It wasn't a small pile of tiny shards either. It was like a mirror the size of the field had shattered high above our heads and fallen in hopes of stabbing someone to death, but succeeded only in skewering the field. It looked like a graveyard made of glass – a sick and twisted place reaching out for more bodies. Don't trip, or the grave markers will decapitate you or slice your veins open and drink your blood.

Holmes and I were very wary as we explored the edge of the 'graveyard.' Neither of us wanted to even get near it, let alone enter it.

"It's silver," Holmes announced.

"Silver doesn't shatter like this."

"Rhiannon. . ."

"Oh right. Logic doesn't exist here. So where did they all come from?"

"Up there." Holmes pointed towards the sky. I looked up. And up and up and up, and there it was. The source of the silver – a hole in the sky. It wasn't big, just a spot in the sky made of nothingness.

"That's. . . really. . . okay, I got nothing." I started wandering into the field of silver shards to get a better look at the hole, which was really pointless because, well, it's a hole with nothing to see. Literally, 'nothing' to see. Before I knew it, I was kind of in the middle of the silver shards wondering how in the world I hadn't cut myself to pieces. Right then, for some reason, Holmes started whistling. (Raise an eyebrow right here.) "What?" I mouthed back.

Then he started gesturing rapidly for me to get out of there. In the distance, a shadowy figure was silhouetted in the mist. I suddenly understood what he was 'saying' and decided to skedaddle. Unfortunately, right at that moment, the silver shards learned how to float, specifically right next to my face. "Holmes? What do I do? _What do I do?_" He didn't answer me. "Very helpful."

The shadowy figure came even closer to the point that I could make out a few snake-like details. He was very pale and walked with a sickly limp that was mostly hidden by his voluminous black robes. I think. . . no, it couldn't be. . . well, maybe it could. . . yes, I think it was. It was Voldemort himself, although, he wasn't himself. He wobbled up closer to me so Holmes and I could hear him speak.

"We are The Triumvirate!" he proclaimed, barely able to move his mouth. "We have come to destroy that antagonist called Jamie Lee. We have found her, and we must destroy her."

Jamie Lee? I knew he was talking about me, but I couldn't figure out why he thought my name was Jamie Lee. Meh. More important things at hand, such as, why was he referring to himself as 'we'? Was he insane? He did sound like Gollum, but then again, Gollum was a split personality sort of guy. So. . . "You're Shadow Beasts obviously. I've never imagined Voldemort with silver eyes. But there's too many of you locked up inside him. Why?"

"So close to death," he said with his head tilted ninety degrees to the right and his voice nearly gone. "Just barely alive, but with so little resistance."

"No where else to go." I almost felt sorry for him, except I remembered that he, or they, were trying to kill me. I also decided to point out, "Hey, you know, 'Triumvirate' is really a rule by three people." This really wasn't the time for it, but in my state of mind, well, I didn't think about that.

He blinked once. Twice. "You killed us, Jamie. We are all that is left. Now we must do as our master commands." Voldemort raised a hand and the shards around my head (for lack of a better word) tinkled slightly.

Suddenly, my stomach was hit so hard, all the air in my system _whooshed_ out and I hit the ground with a _whack!_ I don't know how Holmes did it, but he managed to sneak up on both Voldemort and I and tackle me before the shards could do their dirty work. He kept me pressed to the ground as the silver sliced through the air. All I could hear was a sword fight, but apparently the shards weren't anywhere near enough to hurt us.

At some point, I had to get air back into my lungs or else I was going to die, so I pushed Holmes off. I was finally able to see that the shards were still attacking where my head was supposed to be and getting confused by the apparent lack of head.

"Are you alright?" Holmes asked.

"Aside from the I-haven't-been-able-to-breathe part, I'm fantastic. You?"

"Fine. You have to get out of here. It won't be long before he gets smart."

I looked up and realized that it was too late for that. The shards found us and dived downward, so I braced for the inevitable impact.

Which never came.

I opened my eyes to see that the shards were being held off with some sort of invisible barrier. Not being one to ignore a miracle when it comes, I scrambled to my feet, pulled Holmes up with me, and we ran (or hobbled in Holmes' case) as far away as we could. Someone was walking toward us with his hand outstretched, but he wasn't intent on helping us. Instead, he was focused on Voldemort. He seemed to be some sort of sorcerer because the invisible field moved whenever his hand moved.

Another man emerged from the fog and we were glad to see that it was Snape. Before he could even explain what was going on, a massive blast shook the stadium that literally knocked me off my feet. An ear-piercing scream followed as well as maniacal laugh from a man that looked like he could be Holmes' brother. "I guess he specialized in munitions during the War," Snape explained to my questioning gaze.

"Who is he?" I demanded as I leaped to my feet. "And why is he blowing up the field?"

"He just wants to help," Snape argued. "Besides, he's Sherlock Holmes." Wow. Even the real Holmes was taken by surprise. "He's from a non-canonical story."

"And the guy with the magic?"

"Another non-canon story."

"Fan Fiction," Holmes spat out with disgust. "I never thought I'd see the day. Or _them_."

Holmes' mood didn't improve when one of the many 'Holmes' stopped to talk to our little group. He was out of breath from having run from wherever they were coming from. "Army's on the move, sir," he reported breathlessly.

"We noticed," Holmes growled. "Don't kill Voldemort or any of the Shadow Beasts. We need information."

"Right. Who are you?"

This was the worst question he could ask right about now. Holmes literally snapped. "I'm Sherlock Holmes! _The_ Sherlock Holmes! I never fought in any war, I have never fallen in love, I have never used magic, and I certainly do not laugh maniacally when I blow my enemies brains to pieces! I am the one and only Holmes!"

The man was taken aback and didn't quite know what to say. Eventually, he came up with, "Reginald Kincaid. I'm an actor."

"Does it look we need an actor out here?" he snapped.

Where had I heard that name before? I knew it was Sherlock Holmes related, but I couldn't quite place it. He was probably in a spoof. Either way, Holmes was going to break him to pieces if I didn't step in. "Holmes, he's not Fan Fiction. Leave him alone. And Mr. Kincaid, shoo." He didn't need a second warning. "There are more important things at hand. Like where is Austin Holmes? I need to strangle him."

"There are more important things than your boyfriend."

"Changed my mind. I need to strangle _you_."

"– For instance, the hole in the sky needs to be repaired."

"Being taken care of as we speak," said Snape. "A few of the not-so-badly-written Holmes noticed the same problem and are patching it up with whatever silver we could find." We looked up and, true to his word, seven men on brooms hauled up large sacks of what was probably silver to aid the few specks that were already repairing the hole.

This caught Holmes off guard. "Er. . . good. So what are they doing about Voldemort?"

"We wanted you two rescued first. They're disabling him now. You could probably interrogate him in a minute."

Again, Holmes was thrown for a loop, which is not a good thing. I was perfectly fine with everything being done for us, but apparently that's not how Holmes does things. He pulled me away so we could talk to Voldemort, but he went a whole lot slower than I knew he could move. "Something's wrong. It's too convenient."

"I don't know about you, but I've always been glad for convenient stuff."

"It feels too much like a trap. I think I and all these other Holmes were sent here only to be out of the way for something big. Something involving your world."

"So am I not supposed to be here?"

"No. And I think that is what will be our salvation. In the meantime, let's talk to our friend, The Triumvirate."

Voldemort lay on the ground in a soggy sniveling heap, trembling and cursing. I almost felt sorry for him, except I remembered that he or they or whatever they were, were murderers and villains. He was pinned down by several of the silver shards and subjected to Chinese Water Torture by a rather Debonair Holmes who winked at me as soon as he saw me. I edged myself away a bit.

Holmes knelt down next to the creature and asked him, "Why was I sent here? What are you hiding from me?"

"It won't do any good," Debonair Holmes said smugly. "They're nearly dead and completely deaf."

"So what do expect me to do?" he snapped.

"There's always Time Lord Holmes. Or Psychic Holmes, or even 22nd Century Holmes," the other suggested. "But they're up there." He pointed to the Hole in the Sky.

The creature gurgled and coughed up a cackle. "Holmes? My master brings a message. The Bridge is complete and every world will fall to me. Rejoice in my victory while I kill the scum girl Rhiannon."

"Um," I interrupted, "is this a pre-recorded message? His eyes aren't very focused."

"Holmes?" Voldemort started again, "My master brings a message. The Bridge is complete and every world will fall to me."

"What is the Bridge?" Holmes demanded.

Suddenly, Voldemort turned to us, his eyes clear and sharp. "He will conquer the world and spread from there, using his Bridge until it breaks and the worlds fall into ruin. Stop him Sherlock Holmes." Then his eyes faded away and he turned back.

"What about his name? What's his name?!" I screamed.

"My master brings a message. The Bridge. . . The Bridge. . ." Voldemort exhaled and several silver wisps left his lips, dissipating in the wind.

Silence engulfed the field as the mist faded away and the Holmes's on brooms returned to the earth. It was then that I had one of my most brilliant realizations. "I have to get back home. Now."

"No. You can't."

"What? Holmes, I have to go. I have to stop him!"

"Fine. Try to leave. Write yourself out."

So I tried. I reached for that spot in my mind that lets me create in a world of writing. I couldn't find it. I tried again but to no avail. My concentration was shot and my mind was fuzzy. Holmes was expecting this. It must have been that potion Snape gave me. Or maybe it was that silver shield in the sky. I fell to the ground with a _whump_. "I have to get back home."

Holmes, being an understanding man, handed me a handkerchief with the advice, "Rhiannon, stop crying. You're embarrassing yourself in front of, well, me."

"I'm not crying." But when I touched my face, I knew that I was lying. Yeah, it's that stupid potion messing with my emotions. I shouldn't have been crying right now, but I was.

A crowd gathered around us, waiting for instructions or something to do. The Holmes Crowd didn't say anything, just waited patiently for me to shut up. When I realized who was surrounding us, I understood what Holmes had tried to tell me. Their silence stifled my tears and made me sit up straighter. For the longest time, nobody dared speak. Finally, a voice, possibly a Young Sherlock Holmes, broke through.

"What about the Mirror?"

The Mirror of Erised shows you what you most want. Most of us most wanted to get back to our own worlds. But more importantly, it was the Mirror of Erised that let me into Harry Potter's world. Quite possibly it was that same Mirror that let them into this world. It was definitely worth a shot.

* * *

After a rather silent trek to the castle and an arduous journey through the Labyrinth – sorry! Castle – we came to the Mirror of Erised. The Gentlemen graciously let me be the first one to test out the Mirror. (This was so that any humiliation wouldn't be put on them if it failed.) The Mirror was rather boring, although I was amused at seeing the reflection of one Holmes combing his hair as soon as he got a glimpse of himself in the Mirror. A second later, the surface rippled and a voice echoed through the room. 

"Back again, Rhiannon Phan?"

"Yep."

"And I suppose you want a door to take all of you home to your respective worlds."

"That's it in a nutshell."

The Mirror groaned and rippled again, revealing the same Mirror-Door I had passed through before. Holmes once again muttered something about this being too convenient. I looked at him. He looked at me. We had the same idea. We looked back at the crowd. "Reginald Kincaid!" Holmes called.

The whimpering man came forward through the crowd. "No," he immediately said.

But we didn't feel like giving him much of a choice. Almost as if we were on cue, we shoved the man through the mirror. He went through easily enough and after a few moments we heard only cries of relief on the other side. Spectacular.

I went through next. The trip was different this time. I was stuck in molasses as I hurtled through space and time. Maybe I was wrong about the mirror. Was I going to get us all killed? Did I just kill Reginald Kincaid? Maybe. No big loss.

"Rhiannon! Is that you?"

My limbs were freed from the molasses and I could see that I had materialized in a strange neighborhood. To my left, a long line of people (including adults, teenagers, children, adults acting like children, children acting like teenagers, and teenagers acting like children) sprawled down the street and to my right, Austin Holmes grabbed my shoulders and shook me until I was alert. Of course, with Snape's potion, I was already alert, so I whapped him across the head. "I'm fine! Where the heck were you? And why did you say you'd met Sherlock Holmes when you obviously hadn't?"

"I_ did_ meet Sherlock Holmes. He was just from that Mary Russell series."

Okay, that explained a bit. "Where are we?"

"Barnes and Noble, waiting for Harry Potter."

Hm. Convenient. I like convenient.

* * *

Holmes was right. A storm was brewing on the horizon with the power of Hurricane Katrina and more. Read about the storm coming in a month or so or whenever I have the first chapter done in part four of my trilogy: Sherlock Holmes v. the 21st Century.

In the meantime, Holmes has his Department of Literary Abuses back online, so be prepared.

Gotta go! I have another agent on my tail!

* * *

_Rhiannon Phan_


End file.
